Where You Lead
by Delicate
Summary: All roads lead to Brooklyn.
1. Prologue

_To talk about Rebel Conlon is to talk about Brooklyn, and to talk about Brooklyn is to talk about Spot Conlon. Spot embodied the spirit of the burrough; beauty, spite, danger, power, and self importance. The idea, the dream, the castle-on-the-clouds fairytale that was Brooklyn was all Spot. Rebel was what made the fairytale a concrete reality, though she'd never take any of the credit for it._

_Rebel loved Spot, and Spot was Brooklyn. They were all interconnected. Without one, the rest ceased to make sense._

_There were only ever a few people who knew the true story of Spot Conlon's fabled existence, start to finish, and I was one of them. He wasn't born on a pier in Brooklyn, and he wasn't killed on the Brooklyn bridge by a scorned lover. He wasn't a god, and he sure as hell wasn't a saint, but he was Rebel's brother, and he was the best leader of Brooklyn that ever was. Spot and Rebel were born rich, which no one ever believed either. How could someone as street smart as Spot Conlon come from some hoity-toity background in Conneticut?_

_Even the people that know the truth find it hard to believe. Spot ran away from his privledged existence at the tender age of ten, leaving his eight year old sister to try and hold the family together. That was just like Spot. When he'd gotten all he could get out of something, he just discarded it, be it a girl, an alliance, a bet, a horse, or even a family._

_So Rebel, nee Bridget Elizabeth Conlon, grew up lonely and missing her brother fiercely. She stuck around for nine years, trying to fix a mess that wasn't hers, before she left home the night before her wedding to Lucas Davenport. It was the first selfish act of her young life, and it was a doozy. Another Conlon trait she shared with her brother; if you're going to make a mistake, make it big and loud so that no one will be likely to forget it. Bridget had only ever wanted to be like her brother, so she left like he had; without a backwards glance, and headed to New York City, a place she'd only heard mentioned in passing. Ladies whispered about it out of their daughter's hearing, as if it were a particularly dirty word, a particularly dangerous idea. It wasn't a place where well bred young ladies like herself went. It was a place where (and here the ladies would lower their voices even further, they're cheeks coloring as they spoke) fast girls lived._

_But she wouldn't come to be known as Rebel for no good reason, after all, and she was more like her brother than anyone could have anticipated._

_The story of the Conlon siblings is usually told with reverence, as if they were more than human beings, more than a newsie leader and his pretty sister._

_That's how the story is remembered---but that ain't exactly how it happened._


	2. Leaving Conneticut

A/N: Well..here it is, my brainchild, my baby...there's little else to say right now, because I'm waiting to see what kind of reaction it gets from the crowds here at is nervous

Disclaimer: Really, If I owned 'Newsies' would I be here talking to you good people? No. I would be on a yacht somewhere on the French Riviera, being fed grapes by Spot Conlon. Er..where was I? Oh, yeah. Not owning stuff. I claim Bridget Conlon and her parents--but other than that, Disney can take credit for it's beautiful characters. Lucky bums.

Keep in mind that I am in the market for a beta reader, so if you're interested---please, please, please drop me a line. Hee. The quote for this chapter seemed appropriate, and it's also from a Disney movie! is a dork

Also, because I know it will come up, I shall adress it now---is Bridget a Mary-Sue? Probably. But hopefully she's well-written enough that no one will mind. I mean, one of the best stories I've ever read (_Hellie a' Brooklyn_ by: Brunette) involved a Mary-Sue..so give her a chance, plzkthnx.

x

Enough of my ramblings! On with the story!

_I will never pass for a perfect bride / or a perfect daughter_

_-_Disney's **_Mulan_**

Midnight in Conneticut. By all accounts, Bridget Conlon should have been asleep hours ago. She was getting married in the morning, after all, and her mother would have her head if she arrived at the church with dark rings under her eyes. Everything was very still and quiet and Bridget felt as if any movement she were to make would shatter that tranquility and alert everyone to the fact that the bride-to-be was not sleeping soundly in her room.

So she lay quietly, barely daring to breathe, for some time, until she realized that if she didn't make her move now, the oppourtunity would pass her by and she would be utterly lost. She sat up and looked around her spacious room, decoarated in pale shades of lilac, and her closet, where her voluminous wedding dress was hanging, mocking her, like a huge white omen.

She got up timidly and crouched down to retrieve the suitcase she'd stowed away three days ago, hidden behind an obscenely frilly, equally lilac-y dust ruffle. She opened it and sat back on her heels, checking over the contents one last time and looking around the room to see if there was anything she needed to add. If there was one valuable thing her mother had taught her, it was to be fastidious in her traveling arrangements. A lady always packed for every concievable occasion, and thought she didn't know much about New York City, she was betting that the occasions she would encounter there would be very different from the ones in Hartford.

Once she was satisfied that she had everything she needed, and her suitcase, which was really intended for daytrips to the country and not for the entire wardrobe of a young lady, was bursting at the seams, she went over to her desk and took out a sheaf of stationary (lilac scented, naturally) and stared at the blank page for a moment. She had meticulously planned every inch of her escape---except this. She thought for a moment, and when no sudden flash of inspiration came to her, she put her pen to paper and wrote the simple truth.

_My dear parents,_

_Allow me to apologise in advance for my unseemly actions. I know that I have forever been a mystery and a dissapointment to the both of you---and you will never know how hard I tried to please you. I have spent seven years trying to make up for Ben's absence in our lives, but I cannot do that anymore, just as I cannot marry Jospeh tomarrow. He is a lovely man, I'm sure, but I do not love him--and when (if) I do marry, I want it to be to a man who cares for me as much as I care for him._

_I have spent such a long time trying to be someone I thought you would approve of, that somewhere along the way, I seemed to have misplaced the person I was._

_Please rest assured that I can take care of myself and that I am in good company. I will contact you when I am settled---_

Bridget hesitated, unsure of how to close the letter.

_I love you both._

_Your erstwhile but well meaning daughter,_

_Bridget_

As a final touch, she scratched out the name at the top of the stationary, which her mother had had newly printed just yesterday; _Mrs. Lucas Davenport,_and carefully placed the letter on her pillow. She thought about writing Lucas a letter, but decided against it. They never had any idea what to say to each other in person, she could hardly imagine filling a whole page with words to him. She looked down at her left hand and wrenched the ornate gold ring, peppered with diamons, from her finger and set it atop the letter. She figured that would be good enough.

Swallowing hard, Bridget stooped and picked up her bag, cast weary eyes around her room one last time, and felt as if she was going to be faint. _You don't have to do this._ She reminded herself. She could stay. But what was there to stay for? If she stayed all that lay before her was an elaborate wedding to a man she barely knew and a cookie cutter existence as a Conneticut life. If she stayed, she would forever be defined by her husband and her last name---there was no life left for her, no surprises in her future, if she didn't leave.

Bridget squared her shoulders, strode purposefully over to her window and pushed it open (thank goodness her room was on the first floor, or she didn't know what she would have done). She struggled briefly with her heavier-than-expected suitcase and finally suceeded in shoving it out the window. It hit the ground with a muffled _thump_, and she peered around anxiously, worried that even that slight noise had woken someone in the silent household.

She forced herself to count to ten before she hoisted herself onto the windowsill and dropped carefully to the neatly manicured lawn below, and felt a surge of exhilaration. _She was doing it. For once, Bridget Conlon is taking a risk. _The grounds of the Conlon estate were always beautiful, but her parents had taken extra pains to make it the most spectacular landscape in the whole state, all for the marriage of their only daughter, Bridget, to Jonas Pierpont, son of one of the wealthiest oil tycoons in the United States. The thought of how much money her parents had sunk into this event made her feel sick to her stomach. But she could not---_would not_ turn back. Not now. Not when freedom was so close she could taste it, could grab it with both hands if she reached out far enough.

_Jump, I'll catch you._ Ben's voice sounded in her head as clearly as if he'd whispered in her ear, and she smiled, trying to mask her irrational urge to be sick in her mother's prize-winning rose bush.

With a determination she suspected she had inherited from her long-gone brother, Bridget headed down the long gravel driveway, feet already hurting in her stylish but pointless shoes, lugging the suitcase that contained ninety-five dresses but not one book to read on the train, and resolutely did not look back once at the life she was leaving behind her.


	3. Runaway, run

A/N: Just to make sure everyone understands this---the quote at the start of the chapter is meant to be ironical. At this point in the story, Bridget is a shade to the left of naive. Keep that in mind.

_..Somewhere down this road / I know someone's waiting / Years of dreams just can't be wrong / Arms will open wide, I'll be safe and wanted / Finally home where I belong._

_- **Anastasia**_

She'd first concocted this plan two years ago, the day that fateful newspaper had arrived on their front step, but she hadn't actually put it into motion until Christmas of last year, when she and Lucas had become engaged. It was a knee-jerk reaction to the panic attack she'd had that night, lying in her bed and realizing that she had a fiance.

The plan had seemed much more dramatic then--her whisking off in a cloud of mystery, possibly with an extremely chic hat on her head, and a lot less...painful then it was shaping up to be. Her feet were killing her.

The train station was miles from the house, and there had been no way for her to organize a carriage to pick her up without her mother noticing. She'd covertly cleaned out her savings account at the bank yesterday in town, telling her mother she was going to look in the dress shop. The clerk had given her a strange look, before she'd sweetly reminded him that she was getting married (as if anyone in the town was still unawares of that fact) and would be moving all of her assests to a joint account with her husband. The word 'husband' nearly blew her cover, because saying it always tripped her up. The idea of her being someones wife was ridiculous enough, but the idea of that someone being Jonas Pierpont, who always spoke to her in a very soft voice, as if he was afraid her eardrums were to delicate to stand his voice at audible tones, was enough to make her want to laugh, very hysterically. Which would have only served to frighten the other customers at the bank.

It had been a lot of effort for a small result. She only had a little over a fifty dollars in her account--the result of a year of scrimping and saving birthday, christmas, and pocket money like a common street woman. She was thoroughly dissapointed in herself. After the cost of the train ticket, the price of a new suitcase (her old one had burst in an explosion of lingerie two miles from the train station), maybe a book to keep her company..oh, and a good hot meal (nerves had prevented her from eating a thing all day, and she was suddenly ravenous) she wasn't sure how long she would be able to survive in a big city like New York on such a meager amount.

Sighing and grappeling with the broken valise she had clamped in her arms to prevent another showering of her under garments, she forced herself to keep moving, one foot in front of the other, and kept her eye on the prize; _New York. Finding Ben. Starting over._

Once she found Ben, she reasoned to herself, he would gladly let her stay with him---it wouldn't matter that she didn't have very much money, she told herself comfortingly. She wasn't sure how much Ben made---she supposed he was still a newsboy, and she didn't think they made very much--but she knew her brother well enough to know that whatever circumstances he was in, he would have made the absolute best of them. Ben would never be content to just be a newsboy---perhaps he was head of circulation, or something important sounding like that. She had the utmost faith in Ben, always had.

So, Ben could support them, and in return she would do his cooking and cleaning (she could cook and clean---couldn't she? Wasn't it a given that all women could do these things from birth?) or whatever it was that common women did. And she could get a job (the very notion would have given her mother a panic attack, and Bridget clung to it gleefully, like a talisman) maybe as a shop girl--or, maybe, she could get a job at one of the theatres New York was so famous for. Yes--that was what she would do. Work at a theatre. Then, when she became famous (_And now, ladies and gentleman, the lovely Bridget Conlon!) _and bought herself a big mansion of her own, her parents would have to admit that they had been wrong.

She grinned despite the needle-sharp pain in her feet. Reunited with Ben----it was going to be so wonderful. She just knew it.

Maybe she should buy some new shoes before she got there.


	4. Planes, trains, and David Jacobs

_You take your number and you stand in line / And they watch to see how high you're gonna climb / Pat on the back and better luck next time / This ain't nothing, no nothing but a heartbreak town_

-Dixie Chicks, **_Heartbreak Town_**

New York smelled terrible.

It was Bridget's first coherent thought after she'd deported the train, her brand new tramp steamer at her feet. The city smelled like the worst case of morning breath possible. And it was dirty. And dangerous. She hadn't even left the train station, and already she'd had to clock an errant pickpocket in the head with the copy of _Ivanhoe_ she'd purchased before she'd left Conneticut.

And she had no idea where to go. And after her shopping spree, she was left with a grand total of twelve dollars and ninety-four cents. Which she didn't think was enough to get a room at the Waldorf-Astoria for the night. And she had no idea where to find Ben.

Damn. She should have thought this through more carefully. Panic started to slowly set in as Bridget realized that she was alone in a foreign city with a piece of luggage she had no means of transporting, and no idea where her brother was. Where was she, anyway? She peered at the sign on the wall and discovered that she was in 'Manhatten: Upper East Side'. Well. At least that sounded nice.

_"Extry, extry!"_ Bridget turned quickly towards the call and instantly her heart leaped. _Thank you,_ she mouthed silently towards the heavens, greatful for whatever forces watching out for her today, and hurried as fast as the trunk she was lugging would allow her in the direction of the newsboy standing on the street corner, waving his papers enthusiastically in the air.

"Excuse me," Bridget panted, "I was wondering if you could help me with something." The boy lowered his arm and regarded her pleasently. "What can I do for you miss?"

"I was wondering if you could tell me where I could find my brother, Ben Conlon. It's just I know he's a newsie--I have a picture here somewhere--" She rummaged in her purse for a second before emerging with a slightly yellowed newspaper clipping, which she handed to the boy. "That's him." She said, pointing out Ben's position in the photograph. She glanced across the line of faces that she had memorized over the years--inventing names for them, inventing stories. They were so familiar to her she felt she knew them herself.

After the initial shock of seeing her brother on the front page of the New York Sun, she had become a bit obsessed with the newsboys' strike. She had thrived on any news she could glean about it--which wasn't much, unfourtunately. It was, of course, a forbidden topic in the Conlon household; her mother would go into one of her fainting spells, and her father would get that tight expression on his face that Bridget knew masked dissapointment and anger. But she'd saved the picture, kept in hidden inside one of her books, and she'd looked at it every night before she went to bed, familiarizing herself with people she imagined to be Ben's friends. How brave they all looked, rebeling against some of the most powerful man in the country without a fear or a care. Looking at that picture made her feel so proud she thought her heart might burst.

Hang on a minute--Bridget did a double take at the boy standing before her. "Why--that's you!" She cried excitedly, pointing at one of the many grinning faces. The boy smiled grimly. "It's been a while since I've seen this picture." He admitted, and Bridget took a moment to study him more closely. He looked to be roughly Ben's age--eighteen or nineteen maybe, with curly brown hair and intelligent eyes.

Remembering her manners, Bridget extended her hand. "I'm Bridget Conlon---it's a pleasure to meet you, Mr...?" The boy was still looking at the photograph and seemed not to realize that Bridget was speaking to him. "Oh--I'm David, David Jacobs." Bridget beamed at him. "Any friend of Ben's is a friend of mine." She told him warmly.

David looked stuck for words for a moment, before eventually asking; "Is...uh, _Ben_ expecting you?" Bridget bit her lip and looked away. "Well..not exactly." David nodded. "Did you run away?" He asked bluntly.

"No, I did not." She replied, as cooly as she could, and David arched his eyebrows at her sarcastically. "Oh, really? Your parents just decided it would be alright for you to come to New York with no chaperone and stay with your runaway brother for a few days?"

"Ben is _not_--" Bridget began heatedly, highly affronted at this David person's caustic tone, and David cut her off, looking weary. "Nevermind." He said irritably.

Bridget snatched the photo out of David's hands and stowed it back in her purse. "Can you tell me how to find Ben or not?" She snapped, not caring that she sounded unspeakably rude. David squinted at the sunlight and said nothing for a moment.

"I have a feeling I'm going to live to regret this--but yes, I can help you find your brother. You won't like what you find, just as fair warning, but I will help you find him. Wait here, and I'll find someone else to go with us."

"Why do we need another person?" Bridget asked curiously, trying to keep up with David as he strode across the street, her steamer trunk smacking painfully against her heels. David sighed. "For two reasons. One; there is no way that I can carry that mammoth suitcase all by myself, and I sure don't expect you to be any help, and two; it's always a good idea to take as many people as possible with you when you go to Brooklyn. Safety in numbers, and all that."

Bridget looked dumbfounded and David chuckled. "Let that be your first lesson in big city life, Bridget. Welcome to New York."


	5. Hope floats

4. Hope floats, hope sinks

_'Tread softly because you tread on my dreams'_

-**Yeats**

So that was how Bridget Conlon ended up walking to Brooklyn with David Jacobs, the rudest newsboy in New York, and another short, italiant newsie who chain smoked cigard and claimed his name was Racetrack. _Racetrack._

"Your name...is Racetrack?" She clarified, watching the shorter boy take a drag on his cigarette. "Yep." He answered, grinning at her in a very impish manner. "Why?" Bridget asked, genuinely curious. What kind of parent named their child _Racetrack_? David snorted in amusement, but Bridget ignored him.

Racetrack cleared his throat importantly before beginning. "It's a nickname---on 'a count of I'm a bit of a gambler." David shot him a look, " 'A _bit_ of a gambler'? Like Pulitzer is a _but_ of a tightwad?" Racetrack frowned, annoyed that David had inturrupted his story and continued. "But my real name is Anthony. Anthony Higgens---but since I ran away from home an' all--"

"Do all the newsies run away from home?" Bridget wondered aloud and Racetrack shrugged his shoulders indifferntly, as if it wasn't a big deal to run away from home. "For the most part, yeah. David still lives with his family, but that's generally what the newsies are. Orphans and run-aways."

"A ragged army, without a leader." Bridget supplied quietly, causing David and Race to stare at her. "It was in the article." She said defensively, blushing under their gaze. Race shook his head and shifted the weight of the steamer trunk he and Dave were carrying. What had she packed in this thing, anyway? Rocks? He didn't think dresses weighed this much. "You really Spot's sister?" He asked her, looking skeptical. Spot Conlon with a sister was one thing, but Spot Conlon with a sister that was a naive society dame was a little tough to swallow. Bridget looked confused. "Spot?"

Race rolled his eyes and lit another cigarette. "You wanna field this one, Davy, or should I?" David sighed and he and Race double their pace. The sooner they got to Brooklyn, the sooner this would be over with, and they could meet up with the rest of the gang and relay the tale of Spot's haughty sister to anyone that would believe them. "Spot is Ben, Bridget."

"Spot is..his nickname? Like Racetrack?" Bridget asked, hurrying to keep up with the two newises. Race nodded. "Spot--er, Ben, is the leader of the Brooklyn newsies. Very famous and well-respected guy, your brother." Bridget smiled proudly, as if to say _well of course he is, silly_. Racetrack felt bad for her. "When was the last time you saw Ben?" David asked, changing the subject.

_"Benjamin, come back here right now!"_

_Nine year old Bridget Conlon was close to tears. It was her birthday and things had been going so well----why did they have to ruin it by fighting? She knew her parents were worried about her brother--lately he had been spending miore and more time with a group of boys that her mother had labeled as 'no good'-- but she didn't see why they couldn't save their arguments until a later date._

_Her eleven year old brother, Ben, stalked out of the house and slammed the door hard behind him. Bridget had instinctively run forward to him, but shrank back when she saw the look of black rage on his face._

_"Ben-" She began timidly, and he started, as if he hadn't realized she was there. He forced a smile for her and ruffled her sandy locks so like his. "Hey kiddo, how's the birthday girl?" She didn't tell him that the party was boring, and after they'd dumped their presents in front of her the other girls had abandoned her to gossip amongst themselves. _

_"Why are you and Father fighting?" Ben's smile faded and he turned away from her, which hurt worse than the snub of the other girls at her party. "It's nothing, Bee. Don't worry your pretty little head about it." And because she trusted her brother, she didn't worry._

_And then that night he'd come into her room, his voice hushed and anxious but his eyes calm. He had a ruckasack in his hands, and she hadn't understood what that meant. "Ben? What--" _

_"Shhh." He covered her mouth with his hand and began to speak in a rapid undertone. "Listen to me, Bee. Don't say anything, just listen, alright?" Bee nodded, her eyes huge and frightened. _

_"I have to go away for a while." Bee opened her mouth to protest before remembering her promise to be quiet. "I can't stay here anymore---if I do, Father's going to send me away to boarding school. And I can't let that happen."_

_"When will you be back?" She whimpered. Ben smiled sadly and touched her cheek. "I don't know." Tears welled in her eyes, and Ben looked away, as if the sight hurt him to much to watch. "But...who will take care of me?" She asked, a consummate nine year old, she was only concerned about her own well being._

_"You're a big girl, Bee. You can take care of yourself now?" She didn't feel very big. She felt small and incapable of grasping the enormity of this situation. _

_"Who'se going to take care of you?" Ben shrugged, false bravado written on his features. "No one." _

_"Won't you be lonely?" He shook his head and got to his feet. "Don't worry about me Bee, understand? I'll be fine. And so will you. Just---be the tough kid I know you can be, alright?" Bee nodded, wiping at the tears rolling down her cheeks._

_"I'll miss you." She whispered piteously and Ben shut his eyes briefly. "I know. I'll miss you as well." She didn't know if he was lying or not, but she told her fragile eight year old ego that Ben would never lie to her. He went over to her window and pushed it open, looking back at her with those gray eyes that were so dear to her. He looked much older than his eleven years. She committed the proud line of his back to her memory and forced a watery smile to her lips. _

_Then, he was gone. Her brother, her idol, her favorite person in the world, dissapeared into the night, and never came back._

"Nine years ago." She told them, her eyes distant and fixed on the ground. It was an awkward moment for Racetrack, who, in all his years as a runaway, had never thought about whether or not his leaving home had affected his family. It had been a big family, he'd always assumed they would have been glad to be rid of him. But now he looked at this girl who had Spot's determined look on her face and eight years of worry and saddness etched in her eyes and wondered if anyone in his family had ever missed him that much.

He hoped not.

Bridget had started out the journey with high hopes, but the longer she walked with David and Racetrack, the more she heard about her brother, Spot Conlon, the most powerful, the toughest, the most dangerous newsie in all of New York City, the lower they dropped, and the more she worried that even if she did find her brother, she wouldn't recognize him.


	6. Everything is bigger in Brooklyn

**A/N: **I really like this chapter for some reason. Probably because it has Spot in it. Heh.

**Elyse**: Thank youuuu for calling me on the fact that I've managed to give Bridget's fiance like, seven different names. is sheepish. To clairfy the issue; her fiance's name was orignially supposed to be Jonas Pierpont, before I decided that I liked Lucas Davenport it doesn't really matter a whole bunch, but I'm strange and like Lucas better than Jonas. Whatever anyway, I tried to go back through and edit that--but I missed a few spots. Apologies for the confusion :o) and thanks again for calling me to task on it.

As for the nickname "Bee" that Spot calls her, there really isn't any huge significance behind it--I just think Bee is a cute nickname for someone named Bridget. I wish I could take credit for it, but it's shamelessly stolen from _The Sisterhood Of The Traveling Pants_ series. I guess I should add that to my disclaimer, huh? XD Anyway, thanks for your review!

**Madmbutterfly:713**: Thank you for your review xoxoxox.

5. Everything is bigger in Brooklyn

_'Blood might be thicker than water, but Brooklyn is thicker than anything.'_

_-_**Spot Conlon**

Bridget decided that the trip hadn't been a total waste. She had at least gotten to stand on the Brooklyn bridge, and it was the biggest, most beautiful thing she'd ever seen in her life. It's sheer size and magnitude left her struck dumb for a moment. David and Racetrack had told her that everyone shouted off the Brooklyn bridge, so she had. It seemed appropriately rebellious, and it made David and Race laugh, which was nice. She'd never been around men who treated her like an equal. Her father had treated her like a stranger, someone he was aware of but didn't fully know. Lucas had treated her like something delicate and fragile, not to be troubled by disturbing talk of buissness or politics---and Ben? Ben had treated her like his golden girl, his little sister, his darling, his treasure.

She wondered if he still thought of her that way. For her part, she'd never stoppped loving her brother---even though it had been years since he'd left, and even though her parents and the rest of Hartford liked to behave as if there had never been a Ben Conlon, she'd never let his memory fade from her mind.

"Well--here we are." Bridget looked around in confusion, her nose wrinkling at the smell of fish and stagnant water. "He lives...here?" This was a pier. A _disgusting_ pier. A disgusting pier chock full of soaking wet, half naked teenagers.

"Yep. C'mon--we'll take you to him. 'Ey, you--Docksider, watch the ladies stuff willya? We gotta talk to Spot." Race handed over Bridget's trunk to a burly newsie who eyed her suspiciously with the eye that wasn't swollen shut behind an ugly ring of black, blue, and purple. "She ain't one of Spot's old girls, is she? 'Cause we ain't supposed to let them down on the dock anymore. He says he don't want nothin' to do with 'em durin' the daytime."

"I _beg your pardon-_" Bridget began, looking furious, but David held out an arm to restrain her, fighting back a laugh at the younger girls outrage. "No, no. Nothing like that--she's, uh, an old friend of Spot's. He'll want to see her---I think." He added, more to Race then to Docksider. Bridget fired up again, causing both David and Race to wince. "An _'old friend'_? I'm his--"

Race clamped a hand over her mouth to quiet her, and she bit him. "Ouch!" Bridget looked shocked at what she'd just done and flushed. "Sorry. Instinctive reaction." She explained, handing him a hankie to wrap around his now bleeding palm. "S'ok." Race muttured darkly, inching away from her a bit. Docksider gave them strange looks, and for a moment David wondered if he was going to let them pass, but he finally relented and stepped back.

"Fine--but keep it short and sweet. He's in a bad mood today." Race rolled his eyes. "Like that's a new development." Bridget scowled at Docksider, "I don't want to just _leave_ my clothes with this man." She snapped haughtily, and Docksider chuckled. "No worries, doll face. I ain't got much use for a trunk full of dresses and corsets." Bridget looked unconvinced, but David and Race grabbed hold of her arms and frog marched her down the pier to where her brother, the infamous Spot Conlon, was surveying his domain with jaded eyes and feeling immortal.

- - -

"LET GO OF ME."

Spot Conlon looked over his shoulder and saw David Jacobs and Racetrack Higgins dragging some dame down the pier towards his perch, preparing to disturb. His eyes, beautiful and terrifying as two silver bullets, narrowed dangerously. He'd had enough of Manhatten's hand me down whores looking for a place in Brooklyn. Brooklyn had enough whores all on it's own.

"Spot--how's it rollin'" Racetrack asked, extending a hand and releasing the girl who was staring at him as if he was a god (which, in Spot's mind, was always a bit of an understatement). It made him feel a little kinder towards her. She looked familiar. But then--so did the majority of girls in New York.

"What brings you boys to Brooklyn?" He asked (not really giving a damn) but shaking Race's hand, then David's like a good burrough leader. He ignored the girl. She looked crest-fallen, which irritated him. He didn't like girls that could be broken that easily.

"Well, uh, Spot, see--thing is--Davy here was selling his papes down at Grand Central today and he met--" Spot frowned at the Manhatten gambler and wondered what the hell was going on. Race, who was famous for being able to smooth talk his way out of any situation without breaking a sweat, was rambling slightly hysterically, his voice growing more shrill by the second, and David 'The Walking Mouth' Jacobs was simply standing there, his infamous mouth silenced for once. It took Spot less than a second to realize that they were _nervous_. Really nervous. Spot smelled trouble---and he was pretty sure the girl was the cause of it.

He turned to her, meeting her eyes directly, and shutting out the other two. The girl shrank away from his intimidating gaze and looked as if she wanted to run as fast as she could away from him and Brooklyn.Which was the usual rection, but Spot still relished the feeling of inspiring terror into people, it was one of the perks of the job.

"Alright, look toots; I dunno what it is you want but--"

The girl seemed to come to life at the sound of his voice and she stepped forward, her lower lip trembling, her eyes hopeful. Spot stopped talking and felt his stomach contract. _He knew those eyes._ As a matter of fact, he'd spent eight years trying to forget them.

"Ben?" The voice was so small and plaintive she could have still been a nine year old begging him not to leave her. A foreign emotion exploded in Spot Conlon's brain; fear.

He licked his suddenly dry lips, and his voice was little more than a harsh rasp. "I dunoo anyone by that name." His sister looked near tears, and Race and David looked as if they would've rather been any where but there at that moment. Spot could have killed the both of them for bringing her here like this without a warning.

"Ben--it's _me_. It's Bridget." It was a plea, a hope, a dream.

There was dead silence for a split second. Then Spot Conlon, leader of Brooklyn, acting leader of Midtown and the Barvey, and the most revered newsie in the city, issued a command. "Clear the pier." David and Race knew he was talking to them, even though his gaze was still fixed on Bridget. His voice was like steel, and his eyes were unreadable, but they could tell the great leader was more than a little shaken.

"Sure, Spot." David said quietly, before he and Race turned and began the arduous task of getting all of the Brooklyn newsies to retreat to dry land for a few moments. It was easier said then done, but when Spot Conlon issued a direct command, only a fool would have dared to disobey.

--

**Spot**: Review, or I'll soak ya!

**A. Duchess:** _SPOT._

**Spot:** What!

**A.Duchess:** Don't threaten my readers.

**Spot:** grumblegrumble

**A.Duchess:** Ignore the angry little Brooklynite. But, if you liked/disliked anything please do let me know about it.

**Spot**: Hey, who you callin' _little_!


	7. Family resemblence

**madmbutterfly713:** Loving Spot is a common affliction. (pets Spot) He's just so darn cute. I'm glad you liked the new summary--I was worried it was a little melodramatic. Thanks for your review, dear!

**sonei:** I'm glad your enjoying it--thanks for the review!

**Elyse:** Glad that cleared things up for you. I like Lucas Davenport better to--as for how Spot acts when he and Bridget are alone, read and ye shall see. He's a unpredictable bugger, that Spotty.

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A/N: Yes--the quote for this chapter is from the 'Gilmore Girls' theme. In fact, the title to this fic was inspired by said fic. That's right, Spotty dear, you're practically a GILMORE GIRL. (sadistic laughter)

**Spot: **choke/gasp/nausea!

**Jack**: Haha. Spot's a _girl._.

Spot: Shut up, you aren't even IN this story.

**Jack:** Yeah, but Klicks loves me better, isn't that right?

**Klicks**: Uh, well..

**Spot**: Like that's supposed to be a big deal?

**Klicks**: HEY! Watch it Conlon, or I'll have you fall in love with Racetrack.

**Spot**: ...say what?

**Klicks**: Yeah, SpRace fanfiction has become very popular as of late.

**Spot**: ..but..but..I'm a PIMP. I have a _cane_! Race is...

**Jack**: Short.

**Spot:** I was going to say Italian but short works.

**Klicks**: Enough of this. There is a fic to be read, you know.

**Spot**: Whatever. You're the one who called me a girl.

**Klicks**: Shh!

7. Family resemblence

_'Loving you the way I do / I know we're gonna make it work'_

_-Louise King_

When she was sixteen, her parents had spent the majority of the year parading her around Conneticut in ugly white dresses at various 'debuts'. Debuts were basically parties proclaiming that she and her friends were all attractive, vital girls of marriagable age. To her, it felt like a cattle show. If the cattle wore ugly white dresses, of course. At every debut, Bridget had been forced into a whalebone corset that her mother had insisted be laced as tightly as possible. The first time, the pain had been almost too much for her to take.

_'Mother, I can't breathe.'_ She had whispered as they descended the staircase, eyes watering as she wondered if her ribs were breaking. Her mother's smile hadn't flickered. _'Breathe through your nose.'_ She'd advised calmly. The room had swayed before her, faces blurring. _'I think I might faint.' _Bridget had whimpered, an edge of desperation in her voice. _'May I please sit?'_ Her mother had swept her cold gray gaze over her sternly, her smile bright and phony as ever. _'No. Learn to stand.'_

Standing on that pier in Brooklyn, alone with this strange, scary, boy with her brother's face and her father's cane in his hands, it was the only thing Bridget could think of. Her knees were shaking, and she badly wanted to crumple to the ground, but she did no such thing. _Learn to stand, _her mother had told her. And she had. No matter how tremendous the pain.

"How'd ya find me?" His voice was different. He had abandoned the crisp, refined dialect they'd been brought up with in favor of the rough slang of the streets. His handsome, youthful features were gripped with a hatred she could only assumed was aimed at her. There was no joy in his eyes at the sight of his sister, no tearful reunion to be had for Ben and Bridget, and she supposed she had been stupid to expect one.

Numbly, she showed him the wrinkled picture she'd cut out of the paper two years ago. The picture that had been her keepsake, her talisman, her reminder of new beginnings. He glanced at it dismissively, scratched his head, and furrowed his brow, trying to figure out how to handle this latest delimma without inturrupting his own routine. "Alright, you can stay wid' me tonight, and then tomarrow you'se goin' back home on the first train."

It was a kick to the stomach. Her plan, her beautiful plan, dissolved and desecrated. Her new life, her fresh start, was left dying in the mud. She wanted to cry, but crying would have been taking the easy way out. It used to be that the 'easy way' was the only option for her.

Well---not anymore. She was in New York, wasn't she? She had made it this far, too far to be shooed back home like a disobediant child.

"No." She got the feeling that the person Ben had become was not used to being told '_no'_ very often, because he looked angry enough to hit her. Ben never would have hit a girl, much less his own sister. She didn't think Spot Conlon would have given it a second thought.

"We ain't arguing about this, toots. I got buissness to attend to."

"What _buissness_ would that be? You live on a pier." She almost laughed at the enraged expression on his face but decided not to push her luck.

They glared at each other for a few moments, each waiting for the other to back down. "You're goin' home tomarrow." Spot growled, eyes little more than grey slits in his face. Bridget's shoulders slumped and he winced inwardly at the hurt in her big eyes. "What hapened to you, Ben?"

Spot sighed. "I don't wanna discuss this right now." She noticed he was taking great pains not to call her by her name, and it was grating on her already stretched thin nerves. "Well, thats too bad, because the rest of this damnable city might be scared of you, but I'm your sister, Ben, and I think I'm entitled to an explanation as to why my own brother seems to despise me so much."

"That's yer trouble. Always thinkin' your entitled to things you ain't got no buissness with." He grumbled, and Bridget was seized with an urge to slap him in his cocky, arrogant face. Instead, she took a deep breath, controlled herself, and tried again. "Ben--"

"Don't _call_ me that." He roared, and Bridget, instead of shrinking in the face of his anger, responded in kind. "Oh, _I'm_ sorry, I forgot that the big, tough, newsie prefers to go by _Spot_ these days." Spot raised his hand without thinking and Bridget was too slow and too inexperienced to duck out of the way in time. It was probably the least vicious blow Spot Conlon had ever dealt, but to a girl like Bridget who'd never been slapped before, the shock alone hurt like hell.

She reeled backwards, her hand pressed against her rapidly reddening cheek, and she stared at Spot in amazement. Spot stuck his hands in his pockets and fought back the urge to apologize. Maybe she would leave now, once she realized that he was no longer the brother she wanted so badly.

He should have known better. Bridget never gave up. It was a Conlon family trait, he supposed. Anyone watching the two of them facing off against one another, the same defiant expression written on both their faces would have known them for brother and sister in a heartbeat.

"What did I do?" It was a question that had nearly driven her insane, and it left her mouth before she had the chance to check herself. Spot shook his head. "Nothin', kid. It wasn't you I was runnin' from."

"I missed you." She told him sadly, and Spot chuckled drily. "I'm sure you were the only one." Bridget's eyes darkened in anger, her hand still against her cheek. "Mother stayed in bed for a week after you left, and father sold the bussiness a year later."

Spot glanced at her, intrest piqued mildly. "He never said anything, but I knew it was because he didn't have a son to hand it down to." She said flatly, in response to his unasked question. Spot shrugged and stared over her shoulder at where all his newsies were standing, looking uncomfortable and curious as to why they had been kicked off their pier.

"Aren't you even going to ask me why I left?" Bridget asked quietly, and Spot looked her directly in the eyes, all the heated emotions gone and replaced by something akin to amusement. He'd forgotten how dearly Bridget loved to tell a good story. "You kill someone?"

She recoiled from him. "No."

"Too bad. Woulda' made for a interestin' story." He said with a grin. "You pregnant?" She smacked his shoulder in exasperation. "I'm getting married. Was," She hastily ammended, "I _was_ getting married. Today." Spot's arched eyebrows dissapeared under the brim of his gray newsboy's cap. "Ta' who?"

"Lucas Davenport." Spot's lip curled in disgust. It was the first time she would learn that Spot would never approve of the men in her life. "You's engaged ta that red haired misery? He was a goddamn pansy when we was kids." _We still are kids, _Bridget thought, but kept silent.

"He was rich and well-connected. That was good enough for Mother and Father." She replied with a shrug. Spot shook his head and swore loudly, cursing their parents and Lucas in language that made Bridget's ears burn, but she didn't reprimand him. She never had, and she didn't think right now was the ideal time to start.

Spot considered her for a moment, carelessly twirling his cane, it's gold top glinting in the late afternoon sunlight. "You got a place to stay at least?" He asked finally, concension in his tone. Bridget flushed and looked away from him. "I was--actually hoping I could stay with you." She said, her voice very small. Spot rocked back on his heels and laughed at her.

"Wid' me? I live in a boarding house, girly. You wanna share a room with thoity other guys? 'Cause I'm sure they'd get a kick outta it." He taunted. "Aren't you their leader? Don't you even have your own room?" Bridget snapped, temper getting the best of her. She tried to calm down, reminding herself that arguing would get her no where. Her feet were beginning to hurt, and she wanted a hot bath. She didn't care where she went, just as long as it had a place where she could scrub off the layer of dirt and grim she'd acquired.

Spot hooked his fingers through his belt loops and smirked cockily at her. "Sho', I got my own room. But I prefers ta keep that for when I has...company." He wiggled his eyebrows and smirked wider, just to make sure she understood his meaning. Bridget stomped her feet. "Ben Conlon, I think you are terribly mean and a very poor brother, what do you intend to let me do? Freeze to death? Starve? And all because you're too selfish to share your room with me." _Bingo_. She'd finally played her cards right. She may not know how to organize a successful escape plan, or how to find Brooklyn on her own, but Bridget Conlon did know how to manipulate men; newsies or oil-tycoons, brothers or fiances, they were all the same.

Spot sighed and caught her arm as she made to turn and flounce off down the pier. "Aw, Bee, lighten up." Her heart soared. _Bee!_ The use of her old nickname brought back hope, it meant that she was still his little darling. "I ain't gonna let you starve. But you can't stay with me, and I don't want you to stay in Brooklyn---it's a dangerous place, and there's gonna be trouble enough for you if anyone finds out you's my sister."

"But..then where should I go?" Spot pursed his lips thoughtfully, then turned to where David was still standing with Racetrack. "Hey, Davey, it alright with you if Bridget here stays with you for a little while? Just until she finds a place of her own?" David looked less than overjoyed with the idea of the Conneticut social butterfly living with him, but didn't think it was wise to refuse Spot. "Sure, Spot."

Spot turned back to Bridget, who had a sulky expression on her face. "Look, Bee; David and his family have a nice place in Manhatten where you can stay. You'll like Manhatten, and more importantly, you'll be _safe _in Manhatten." Bridget nodded, still not looking at him, but inwardly pleased that he was at least thinking of her safety. "Don't jerk your chin at me, Bridget Marie Conlon." He warned, his voice soft, and when she met his gaze she felt, for the first time, that she was truly speaking with her brother.

"I'll see you soon?" It was more of a demand than a request. Spot nodded. "I'll come see you this week sometime. Keep ya' head down and ya' eyes open, understand? Don't go nowhere by yourself, not until ya get your bearings down. This ain't Hartford, Bee. It's a whole 'nuther world."

Bridget nodded, then grinned and held out her arms for a hug. "Oh, Ben---" Spot looked a little uncomfortable at the idea of actually embracing his sister, so her settled for patting her awkwardly on the shoulder. "Alright. Go with Dave." He instructed.

Bridget tried to mask her dissapointment and blinked hard, "Alright. Goodbye." She said dejectedly, turning to leave.

"Oh, and Bee?" She turned, eyes bright, expression hopeful. "Yes?"

"Don't call me Ben no more."

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CC makes the world go 'round folks! 3

..so please REVIEW! xoxo


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